


i just flew to korea and boy are my arms tired

by Granspn



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen, also.. it's hard to say whether this is shippy or not, at the very least they certainly loved each other a lot even if they weren't in love, bc i'm of the opinion that they were basically in love but it's hard to say what they did about it, frank and margaret are in it but for so short a period it feels silly to tag them, let's say it can be read as pre-slash, so to speak, they are extremely tender but not a whole lot moreso than in canon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granspn/pseuds/Granspn
Summary: A story about BJ arriving in Korea in two parts. Part 1, in which BJ realizes Hawkeye is special, and part 2, in which Hawkeye (finally) realizes BJ is special
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	1. it's not much but it's got seoul

The day BJ cut the sleeves off of his uniform was among the proudest of Hawkeye’s life. But something like that doesn’t just happen overnight. That’s commitment, you know, that’s government property. The day BJ arrived in Korea was a different story altogether.

BJ had spent most of his five weeks in basic training trying not to burst out laughing from the ridiculousness of it all. The number of people who seemed to be taking this seriously was seriously astounding, as well as the degree to which they apparently found it serious. BJ felt like he was living in a movie. Some kind of sick parody of a war picture where he was somehow the only one who could tell that none of this was normal, let alone acceptable. Getting orders barked at him by G.I.s in khaki tuxedos? He was sure there had been some kind of mix up and there was some red blooded American kid shitting himself in San Francisco General being asked to do an appendectomy earmarked for Dr. Hunnicutt while he was here doing jumping jacks and rifle drills. He made a few friends by virtue of being eminently friendly, but no one who seemed to truly share his outlook that all of this was too bizarre not to be some kind of a dream.

When he shipped out, he didn’t know what to expect. He figured that at some point the horror of it all would hit him all of a sudden but he was trying to put that off as long as possible, consoling himself on the fact that he would write home every day and twice on Sundays and just be in and out of here as soon as possible. He didn’t sleep the whole way there; he was too wired. After however many hours of traveling and about as many cups of coffee, the army, whoever that is, deposited him in some lounge in some airport in some city in Korea and told him that someone from his unit was on their way to pick him up.

BJ thought the energy exuded by the 4077th’s company clerk and later Captain Pierce could be best described as a bit… frenetic. He seemed to have entered the action rather _in medias res_ and wasn’t exactly sure where he fit into their particular story. He watched a scruffy looking kid in smudgy glasses rush in and tell the desk sergeant he was here to pick up Captain Hunnicutt. He stood up before anybody was forced to do more paperwork on his account.

“That’s me,” BJ said, “Don’t everybody get up all at once.” Nobody laughed. BJ figured he’d have to start getting used to that.

“I’m Corporal O’Reilly, sir,” the kid said as he led him outside. “We’re headed for the 4077th MASH, that’s Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. You’ll be able to recognize it by the big sign out front that says 4077th MASH.”

“I’m sure I will.” O’Reilly took him around another corner where a frazzled looking G.I. was stumbling out of the dispatch office.

“Captain Pierce? Captain Pierce, Captain Hunnicutt,” O’Reilly introduced them. Not so G.I., then.

“I missed Trapper by ten minutes, ten lousy minutes!”

“Captain Pierce,” BJ said, holding out a hand.

“Hi,” Pierce shook BJ's hand but barely even looked at him. It didn't appear to be out of rudeness or malice or anything; he simply hardly seemed to notice he was there. Allegedly, they’d gotten there by jeep but it was nowhere to be found. BJ watched from behind as Pierce talked the corporal down from the resulting panic. He was tall, with black hair and bad posture, and he just about quoted Kipling to their company clerk. He’d called him “Radar.” 

“Rudyard Kipling,” BJ said. Pierce did a double take and flashed a hint of a smile.

“Give that man a lady in the balcony,” he said.

“That jeep is government property!” Radar continued to flip out.

“So are you,” Pierce said, his tone steady and his friend placated.

“Pierce, I’m just a little confused,” BJ said. Understatement of the century.

“Hawkeye.” Army nickname? He didn’t look like a sharpshooter. “And don’t let a little confusion throw you, Captain.”

“BJ.”

“One of the first things you learn over here, BJ, is that insanity is no worse than the common cold.” In that case, achoo.

In lieu of searching for replacement “wheels,” Hawkeye led them to the base Officers’ Club, not seeming to mind the fact that they weren’t all officers. That seemed a little callous, but maybe he was a callous kind of guy. Except, when prompted by Radar’s protestations he didn’t make him stay outside but instead plucked BJ’s Captains’ insignia off his shoulder and pinned it to the corporal’s cap. Fucking incredible.

“I’ve only had five weeks of indoctrination; is this what they call a field promotion?”

“For being brave and nearsighted above and beyond the call.”

O’Reilly’s field promotion probably would have been more convincing if he hadn’t ordered a grape NeHi. Then there was the sound of a plane flying, except it couldn’t have been, because it sounded like it was coming from inside the room. BJ actually ducked, before he realized how ridiculous that was. 

“They always fly so low?”

“They’re not low, the ground here is very high.”

“He’s not usually like this, he’s just like that,” Radar explained. Wise guy, huh? Excellent. Finally.

So they drank a little and talked a little and bared their souls a little, then they definitely committed some kind of felony a little by lying to a colonel about Radar and impersonating intelligence men. It was kind of magnificent and kind of fun. Maybe not worth traveling ten thousand miles away from Peggy for, but Hawkeye seemed like kind of a character worth knowing. BJ asked about the rest of the 4077th and Hawkeye talked about them with a lot of love. BJ didn’t want to ask what could happen to a medical man so that he wouldn’t make it home from the war, but after Hawkeye’s reaction to talking about Trapper ("the guy you’re replacing") he didn’t really want to press him about Henry. But BJ sympathized. Who would leave a place like this without leaving a note? Well, maybe him and Trapper hadn’t really been all that close. Weird. Hawkeye seemed like the kind of guy it might be okay to be close to.

BJ paid for the drinks and Hawkeye offered to hustle him at poker. Then he stole a general’s jeep. After that, BJ figured if everybody at the 4077th was like Hawkeye, things would probably be okay. 

***

BJ had a vague recollection of an article in a psychiatry journal, outlining a phenomenon wherein a person can repress a traumatic memory so deeply that they can actually forget events of their life that happened as recently as the previous day. If Hawkeye hadn’t been there feeding him sake and beer and being an all too visceral reminder of where they’d been all afternoon he was sure he would he would have blocked out the past few hours already. But Hawkeye kept him laughing. And he kept Hawkeye laughing. And sometimes that’s kind of all it takes. There’s kind of nothing more amazing than the power to make someone else smile, that’s why BJ had spent his whole life perfecting his two practices: medicine and puns. But Hawkeye had it, too. He was a goof, and he didn’t belong here, since he seemed to care whether people lived or died, and whether they were happy or sad on top of that.

Eventually they finally conceded to Radar that maybe it would be wise to return to camp, but not before Hawkeye had regaled them with what must have been every anecdote in his arsenal. Some took place in med school, others in small town Maine, but most starred the one and only Trapper John McIntyre, gone but not forgotten (not by a long shot). But BJ still couldn’t get the question out of his head of how this guy could have cared so much about Hawkeye, liked him enough to be in nearly every one of his stories, and leave without saying goodbye. Well, he could understand wanting to get out of here as soon as possible, but not without leaving something for your best friend. Absently he wondered what Radar had meant back in the Kimpo Officers’ Club when he’d told Hawkeye not to ask for another one, whatever it was he’d delivered for Trapper that was so transient it was already gone (not unlike Trapper himself). BJ might have worried more about the big shoes he had to fill if he hadn’t been so drunk that he could see his laughter as it left his mouth. A combination of beer, sake, and getting shot at all afternoon had rendered his legs into jelly, which he only noticed as they were pulling into camp to meet two stern-faced majors. He managed a salute but the thought of what he must have looked like made him burst out laughing.

“What say you, Ferret Face?” He said by way of greeting, then collapsed, clutching at Major Houlihan to stop from going completely horizontal. Hawkeye hollered with laughter, a crazy kind of laughter that BJ had thought was reserved only for the manic, the sound of which only made BJ laugh more. Major Houlihan shoved him away, kicking him slightly in the stomach as she did, but he barely felt it. Burns stormed off in a huff.

“First of many,” Hawkeye said, gesturing vaguely to their third bunkmate’s triumphant exit.

“Pierce!” Major Houlihan called. Hawkeye just stumbled back and leaned on the hood of the general’s jeep.

“Get over here, Pierce, I’m serious!” She ordered. Whatever she may have expected, it didn’t wipe the smile off Hawkeye’s face. He brushed himself off and rose to face her, swaying a little as he regained his balance.

“Come on, Hot Lips, aren’t we on a first nickname basis by now?”

“That does it!” She looked ready to smack him. BJ had shuffled over to what he presumed was their tent and collapsed in the dirt. He watched on, propping himself up against a splintering wooden door marking the entrance to the “Swamp.” Hawkeye held his arms up in mock surrender.

“That’s all right, do you want to do it, too?”

“Just shut up, you, you, you insubordinate little twerp! Don’t you realize the impression you’re making of the whole 4077th? Our brand new officer’s very first day and what do you do? You spend the whole day practically AWOL and you turn up back to camp drunk? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“People are always asking me that like I’m crazy for hating the war. But if I am do you think they’ll give me Klinger’s Section 8?”

“You’ve just gotta have a wise crack for everything, don’t you? You think you’re real funny, don’t you? Well you’re not, Pierce. You’re just not!”

“Wh- come on, Margaret–”

“Don’t ‘come on, Margaret’ me, Captain. Why can’t you for once in your life take your commission seriously? Show a little bit of respect!”

“Because it’s not real, Margaret, that’s why! None of this is real.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course it’s real! We’re right here, you and I, aren’t we?”

“Sure, we’re here, but we’re just two people! A major isn’t a real thing. A captain isn’t a real thing! We’re not officers, Margaret, we’re people, remember those?. And people don’t just have the right to yell at each other and order each other around. Dressing everybody in green and khaki doesn’t change the fact you’re supposed to say please and thank you. Especially when you’re asking somebody to go run in front of a bullet.”

Stuporous as he was, BJ had to admit that sounded particularly lucid. He also thought it was strange that no one besides him was staring while two senior officers had a screaming match in the compound. Did stuff like this happen often enough to be so commonplace as to warrant being completely ignored? Just as he was thinking how much he’d like to unpack and get cleaned up, Radar deposited his bag at his feet.

“Here, sir, but I thought you might like to unpack and get cleaned up–”

“Yeah, I just need my bag from the jeep–”

“I brought over your bag from the jeep.”

“Right. Thanks, Radar,” BJ said as Radar offered out a hand and hauled him off the ground.

“No problem, sir. Oh, but I think you should report to Major Burns’ office as soon as possible unless you wanna make a real bad impression on him, sir, and between you and me he won’t really let you live it down if you do, though between you and me again it might be a little late.”

“Thanks for the tip, anyway, Radar.” BJ chuckled to himself, then said, “I’d give you one but I gave all my change to Rosie.”

“Oh, that’s okay, sir. I’ll see you around, Captain Hunnicutt,” Radar said, and turned to leave.

“Wait, Radar!” BJ stopped him. He floundered for a minute, thinking how best to say what he wanted. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, uh, what for, Captain Hunnicutt, sir?”

“Just for how today turned out. Got a little out of hand. If it looks like you’re going to get in any hot water about it, tell them the truth- that it was all my fault. Well, mine and Hawkeye’s. Got that?”

“Oh, uh, yes, sir, I got that.” Radar smiled a little. He had dimples that made him look about twelve years old and all of a sudden BJ was sure he was going to be sick again. He let Radar go without a joke about that being an order, the only one he ever planned on giving. Instead he hauled himself into the Swamp and collapsed on the barren cot in the back corner, the one belonging to the erstwhile Trapper John. For a moment, he felt guilty, wondering was Hawkeye would think when he saw him sprawled out over his friend’s bed, covering up his scent with his own, breathing the air that he used to breath, but in another moment he was unconscious. He woke up who knows how long later to Hawkeye shaking him gently by the shoulders. 

“C’mon,” Hawkeye mumbled, “Let’s get you cleaned up. I brought you some food from the mess tent but it should still be alive after we shower.” He indicated a metal tray sitting on the table next to a giant contraption that BJ couldn’t recognize.

“Mm hm. Thanks,” BJ mumbled back before rolling over and digging through his bag for a robe and towel. Once he’d found his things Hawkeye hoisted him off the cot by his arm and steadied him, just like he had in the field by the road. He led him to the showers in silence, either from his own need for some peace and quiet, or because he understood how little BJ was in the mood for conversation.

What a fucking day. In normal circumstances maybe even the presence of another person would have been too much for BJ but in that moment he wasn’t sure what he would do if Hawkeye hadn’t been there. Anyone could have come to get him from the airport that day, but it had been Hawkeye, and for the moment, BJ was counting himself lucky. 

They went back to the Swamp. Hawkeye didn’t seem to have any intention of delivering him to their C.O.’s office. BJ didn’t bring it up because he didn’t really want to go. He didn’t really want to waste a minute of time he could be spending watching Hawkeye with Ferret Face Burns or the militant Major Houlihan. He was much more fascinated by the anarchic force in the cot next to him. He seemed to exist only in extremes. Rough and harsh to the majors but soft and apologetic to him. Raucous and uproarious at Rosie’s yet all wisecracks and quiet asides to Radar. BJ watched him try and fail for fifteen minutes to start a letter. In the back of his mind he wondered if he was trying to describe him to Trapper. More likely he was just trying to write home. Already BJ was thinking how much trouble he would have explaining Hawkeye in his first letter home. (Dear Peg, My bunkmate is named for and Indian, a president, and a stove. Dear Peg, I think you’d like my bunkmate Hawkeye. He reminds me of you, except he’s six foot two. Dear Peg, My bunkmate Hawkeye is the only thing in this world that’s made me smile since I got here besides thinking of you and Erin.) Eventually BJ was just desperate enough to break the silence and gather reconnaissance. 

“So, you really hate the army, huh?”

“Yeah, don’t you?” _Doesn’t_ everybody _?_ His response said. _Doesn’t everybody with half a brain see how goddamn senseless this all is? Am I the only one here experiencing this reality? Am I? Am I?_

“Sure!” BJ said,“But I’ve never seen somebody hate it quite like you before.”

“Yeah, well. If everybody hated it like me we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“I guess we wouldn’t even have an army.”

“Would t’were that it were.”

“Were you always like that?”

“What, like what?”

“Oh, you know, all ‘stick in to the man,’ spitting in the face of authority, and things like that. I saw you talking to Major Houlihan earlier, while she chewed you out. Would you do something like that back at home, too?”

Hawkeye thought about it for a minute. He took a sip of his martini, if you could really call it that when it was more like straight lighter fluid. Plenty dry, though. Finest kind.

“Yes and no,” he finally answered. “I don’t like to be a piece of shit for no reason, you know. It’s not like I would talk back to my professors in school or anything just because they were in charge. They were in charge because they had the experience, the expertise. But that’s not to say I never gave anybody a hard time. I don’t know…” He trailed off. He was talking to BJ but he wasn’t looking at him. In fact, he seemed to be looking anywhere but.

“But being in the army’s definitely made me angrier. I mean, I can’t remember any time in my life when I’ve even come close to feeling this angry, and it never goes away. Like a constant ache, just there, behind your eyes, the fucking rage that these fat cat generals are sending kids, I mean really sending babies out to their deaths every day and I–” he stopped himself and downed the rest of his drink.

“What could possibly be worth this?” Hawkeye said to the ceiling. BJ could still feel Hawkeye’s hands on his back and forehead as he’d retched in the field earlier that day. He wondered how many more times he’d need to be pulled out of something like that, and if Hawkeye would always be there to do it for him.

“Nothing,” BJ finally answered. He saw Hawkeye’s brow furrow and wondered what that meant.

“Plenty of people seem to think something is. I feel like I’ve been spending my whole life trying to figure out what that is.”

“Asking the big questions.”

“They’re the ones we need answers to.”

“You know, not everybody thinks like that. Most people just worry about their day to day lives, their feelings, their little problems. Do you think you’d be happier if you did that?”

“It wouldn’t matter if I would. I can’t help myself.” And so far, BJ thought that was true. Hawkeye didn't seem to have a lot of layers, no levels of abstraction, no performance. Despite the wiseass-ery and the constant backtalk, he was the rawest person he’d ever talked to. And he seemed disturbed that no one else seemed disturbed. Maybe BJ didn’t believe that tilting at windmills as such was the best use of his time, but Hawkeye was giving him the distinct impression that he couldn’t have stopped if he tried. The way he'd tried to save those girls in the minefield knowing full well no one there could understand his language. The way he bounced from casualty to casualty armed with nothing but some bandages and sulfa despite claiming to be a coward. The way he called everyone by their first name and berated the military to his superior officers and the way about one out of every five of his actions could be grounds for a court martial, and the way he still didn't seem to think that was enough. 

Okay, so not everybody at the 4077th was like Hawkeye. That would have been a pretty tall order. But Hawkeye was like Hawkeye, and that would have to be enough.


	2. PierceandHunnicutt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trying to write hawkeye's internal monologue is like. a whole other ballgame but basically you're loved you fool

Hawkeye and Trapper had been a unit. “Pierce and McIntyre” was one word. You simply didn’t get one without the other. If you wanted one, you got both, and if one was to blame, the other was, too. BJ had been around for about a week when someone made the first slip up.

“Where the hell are Pierce and McIntyre?” Major Houlihan barked to the O.R. at large just as Hawkeye and BJ were backing their way through the swinging wooden doors. The clattering of instruments fell silent for a moment. Hawkeye was a grenade and Trapper was the pin.

“McIntyre, Ma’am?” Kellye piped up, by way of explanation directed at the major’s wide eyes.

“Oh, you know what I mean!” Major Houlihan said.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” BJ said, “could I get a pair of gloves, please?” And the commotion returned. Somebody snapped a pair of gloves on Hawkeye but didn’t feel it; he was numb. PierceandMcIntyre PierceandMcIntyre. He even remembered a drunk or tired or just normal levels of incompetent Henry mistakenly referring to them as “PierceIntyre.” BJ was nice, Hawkeye figured. BJ was actually pretty funny and clever and kind and skilled but he was just no Trapper and that was how it was always going to be. Sooner or later he was just going to have to accept that he was going to spend the rest of the war miserable and alone and that’s that. (Except he wasn’t miserable and alone because every minute spent with BJ was like sweet relief from the constant onslaught of tragedy, but then there was the guilt and the spiraling and the why the hell didn’t he write me and the–)

“Hey, Hawk, could you take a look at this?” Someone said, but he’d gone deaf, too. Then he felt a hand on his arm so suddenly that he startled and let out a small gasp. Major Houlihan had grabbed him. She was looking into his eyes.

“Hawkeye,” she said, uncharacteristically soft and gentile. She never called him Hawkeye. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, Margaret?”

“Just, for everything,” she said, and fixed him with her stare for a few seconds more. “But Hunnicutt needs you at his table, and then you have patients of your own. You got this?”

“Yeah, yes, I got it. Thank you.” He somehow managed to operate without feeling in his fingers. Back in the Swamp after another seemingly endless day he tried again to write the letter he’d been struggling to for a week.

 _Dear Trapper._ At first he’d thought it would be funny to address it “Dear John” and tell him he was leaving him for another surgeon, but he didn’t have it in him. He also couldn’t be sure just how much of that would make it past the censors and he didn’t want his first letter to Trap to be one big black strip of [REDACTED]. (Dear Trapper, What the hell is your problem? How could you leave me like that? Didn’t you know I loved you? Dear Trapper, I’m so happy for you that you’re home! Tell the wife and kids hi from Uncle Hawkeye in Korea. Dear Trapper, A kiss on the cheek after everything I did for you? You would have killed yourself if it weren’t for me.) Not to mention that it was proving near impossible to describe BJ.

He was difficult to pin down. Hawkeye couldn’t figure out how straight he was. He was funny in the kind of way someone who grows up on comedy radio programs is and he was friendly in the kind of the way someone who was raised in the suburbs is and he was a great doctor in the kind of way someone who graduated top of his class at Stanford is. Trying to describe what he looked like just made Hawkeye sound like he was in love with him (and so what if he was, just a little). It almost tortured Hawkeye how perfectly he seemed suited to fill a Trapper shaped hole in his life; they were even the same height. And it would have been easier to hate him for it if he weren’t apparently designed exactly to Hawkeye’s specifications for the perfect companion, laughing at his jokes, keeping calm amidst the chaos, and remaining nobly and almost self-sacrificially loyal to his principles, i.e. his family. He must have been miserable, everyone there was, but he always had a smile on his face. While Hawkeye’s default expression was one of dead-eyed disbelief, BJ’s was inviting and contented, which drove Hawkeye absolutely crazy wondering what was going on in his head.

And of course, there was the fact that BJ seemed to like him. He might have been wary at first, but he was wary of almost everything he came across that first day, and who could blame him? Besides, of course BJ liked him. He didn’t want to toot his own horn to excess but how could he not? He’d been kind to him since the off (but what kind of jackass wouldn’t have been?). He’d been stolen away thousands of miles from his wife and child and for what. To sew up wounded children just to send them back out just to come back needing more sewing up. Hawkeye would have pitied him if he weren’t there, too, feeling just as pitiful. He didn’t want to be cruel to BJ. If anything, he wanted to be cruel to Trapper for leaving him like he did, and BJ was the closest thing he had, the thought of which made him spiral again, every time.

 _You’re not replacing him. There’s no such thing as replacing a person, anyway,_ he told himself. That’s what Dad had told him when he was thinking of getting remarried, but Hawkeye hadn’t believed it then, and he didn’t know what he believed now. He knew the army thought BJ was Trapper’s replacement, and he’d be damned if he’d agree with them about anything. He wasn’t quite as fast a mind-reader as Radar, but eventually BJ interrupted his train of thought.

“Hey, Hawk, check this out. Page 36, new sterilization technique,” BJ said, waving a medical journal and tossing it across the tent when Hawkeye motioned for him to. _Hawk_. Amazing how ‘Hawkeye’ had so become his name as to warrant its own nickname. Amazing how BJ had known him a week and was already calling him by it. Amazing how it sounded so natural coming out of his mouth, like they were born familiar.

“Thanks, Beej,” Hawkeye said, skimming the article he’d directed him to, “Though calling our O.R. ‘sterile’ is a little like calling Father Mulcahy ‘Pope.’”

“Still a lot of steps before we get there?” BJ said.

“Right.”

Nevertheless he read on, making mental notes of small improvements they could make in the hospital.

“Hey, Hawkeye?” BJ said.

“Mm-hm.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“What’s up?” Hawkeye finally looked up from the journal to see BJ actually looking serious for the first time in a week.

“What’s that letter you’ve been writing? You look like you could use some help.”

“I… uh… Uh-huh,” Hawkeye made the sort of grimacing expression he knew he made when he was about to try and weasel himself out of some impossible situation that was probably his own fault anyway. Then he decided not to. “I’ve been trying to write to Trapper. I’ve been trying for about a week now but the words won’t come. I’ve barely been able to write to my dad I’m so preoccupied thinking about this letter that’s never gonna happen.” He didn’t know what he wanted BJ to say. He didn’t know if he wanted his help or not. It made him crazy that he’d offered it in the first place, probably knowing full well what his problem was.

“You write to your dad a lot?”

“What?”

“You said you hadn’t been able to write to your dad. Do you usually write him that often? I don’t think I’ve written my parents since I got here.”

“Yeah, I write to my dad, he’s the only family I’ve got. I mean, some aunts and uncles here and there but who writes their aunts and uncles unprompted.”

“Huh,” BJ said, looking contemplative.

“Yes, Doctor Freud?” Hawkeye prompted. BJ looked like he was really thinking about whether or not to take the bait. He bit.

“Got a lot of friends back home?”

“Some, yeah. A few. Mostly from the hospital, some from back in Maine. Might I ask what it is exactly you’re getting at?”

“Listen,” BJ said, turning from where he’d been reclining in his cot to sit on the edge and face Hawkeye, “It sounds to me like Trapper was pretty special to you.”

“Your powers of observation astound me, Doctor,” Hawkeye snipped. BJ held up a hand to stop him.

“I’m serious. You obviously cared for him, a lot,” BJ said, tactfully. “I think we both think it’s a little fucked up that he didn’t really say goodbye. It’s easy for me to say that because I never met him, but I bet it’s a lot harder for you to think that about someone who meant so much to you.” Hawkeye raised his gaze to meet BJ’s and found his eyes boring into his soul just about as much as his words were.

“What can I say, he hurt my feelings. All he left me was a lousy kiss on the cheek and his half of the still.”

“But you still want to write him.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Why not wait for him to write you?”

Hawkeye didn’t want to answer that. He preferred asking questions that had no answer. If you did that, then you had a lifetime to fill before you got to the ones that did.

“Because he isn’t going to.”

The other day, BJ had asked him if he’d be happier if he focused on his own problems rather than trying to end the war singlehanded all the time like some kind of maniac. Hawkeye was prepared to say for the record that he wouldn’t.

“Right.”

“God! I don’t know what’s wrong with me that he wouldn’t even leave me a note, a lousy note! He was important to me, you know, really important, like, I don’t know how the hell I would have made it from one day to the next without him important and call me crazy as you’ll find many people do but I _kind of_ _thought_ he might have felt the same way about me judging from the fact that we barely spent an hour apart in the entire goddamn year we were together here and–”

“Hawkeye, listen,” BJ said, his voice impossibly steady, “It would be impossible to say everything you wanted to say to someone like that in a note, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it be impossible even to say out loud? I mean, what would you write him, if you had the chance?”

The two of them let the question hang in the air. And he was right, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that exactly what Hawkeye had been trying and failing to do for the past week? Hawkeye could have sworn he saw BJ register the moment he realized that.

“You’re kind of a crafty genius, aren’t you?” Hawkeye told him.

BJ nodded, “It’s been said. Come on, let me buy you a drink.” And he poured them a couple of martinis, and if he closed his eyes, Hawkeye could have pretended it was two weeks ago, but miracle of miracles, he found that he didn’t want to. So BJ wasn’t Trapper, and he wasn’t supposed to be. Hawkeye still needed him, like he always needed someone. At least if he was going to need someone (and he was) BJ seemed like an okay person to need.

***

“Pierce! Hunnicutt!” Margaret’s voice rang out from across the compound. So they’d started a small bonfire in the officers’ latrine and were roasting hot dogs in the best stall, so what. It wasn’t their fault one of the beams had caught and was lighting up camp for miles. Hawkeye beamed as BJ threw him a conspiratorial glance. He was getting used to the sound of their names in one breath.

“I knew it would be you two!” Margaret scolded after she all but kicked down the door to the latrine.

“What, are you psychic or something? Can you tell me when the war’s gonna be over?”

“Just get out! You idiots are going to get us all killed.”

“Killed? It’s just a little bonfire,” BJ reasoned.

“You can’t just go around sending up flares! We’re in the middle of a war zone!”

“Margaret, lighting the latrine on fire does not cancel out the giant red crosses on top of all the buildings,” Hawkeye said.

“Out! Now!” She ordered. Hawkeye and BJ started to scramble out.

“Wait, don’t you want us to put it out?” BJ asked.

“Out!”

“Okay, but I warned ya,” BJ said as Hawkeye pushed him out the door. A few minutes later they heard the shriek. Peeking out of the window in the Swamp door they saw the whole latrine go up in flames, and Margaret running out looking not too much worse for wear, if a little singed.

“Shit,” Hawkeye said.

“Literally,” BJ said. Another few minutes later they heard the announcement over the loudspeaker.

“Attention Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt. Please report to Major Burns’ office on the double. Everyone else, enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet.”

“Guess that’s our cue,” Hawkeye said, very chivalrously opening the door for BJ. Those who get chewed out by Frank Burns together stay together, as the old adage goes. Hawkeye didn’t listen while Frank yelled at them. He just heard the P.A. announcement over and over in his head. PierceandHunnicutt PierceandHunnicutt. _At least I always get top billing_ , Hawkeye thought. He wondered what made him so goddamn codependent and had half a mind to call up Sidney and try to get diagnosed. But he also figured it didn’t make you crazy not to want to go through the world alone. He worried about what would happen to his dad if he got killed out here. He poured him and BJ a pair of martinis when they got back to the Swamp.

“You’re kind of a weird guy, you know that?” BJ said, toasting him and wearing his stupid cheesy grin. He collapsed down into the chair beside Hawkeye’s cot.

“Oh yeah?” Hawkeye said, stepping over BJ’s stupid long legs and reclining on top of his covers. _Come on in and take off your skin and rattle around in your bones_. The ravings of a totally normal guy.

“No, I love it!” BJ shook his head slightly and looked down at the floor. When he looked back up his eyes were fixed in clarity. “I’m actually pretty thankful it was you who came to get me when I got here. Even if you didn’t go there to get me. I don’t know what I would have done without… I mean, you made what would have been the worst day of my life into something tolerable.” _You made it bearable_. Hawkeye’s own words to Trapper echoed in his head. He couldn’t stand to be alone, not since he was a kid, not since it had been him and Dad against the world and all of a sudden he couldn’t stand to be without BJ who was looking at him like maybe he used to look at Trapper and if they were living in another universe then maybe he would have grabbed him by his stupid face and kissed him to say thank you and to say I’m sorry that you’re here and to say I’m sorry but I think I need you.

But in this universe he just said, “You know? Me, too.” And BJ was looking at him almost _expectantly_ like he knew that couldn’t be all he wanted to say because he’d only known him a week and he’d barely shut up for an hour since they’d met and Hawkeye looked at his fresh face and his cropped hair and all he could think was _I’m sorry, god, I’m so sorry, you might think it’s going to be okay but you have no idea what you’re in for and I’m just so, so sorry_.

“It was the least I could do,” BJ said amiably, though maybe he wished it had carried more bite.

“I’ll never let it be said you didn’t do the least you could do.”

And BJ laughed. A little laugh and a smile like when Radar had ordered a Grape Nehi in the Officers’ Club at Kimpo instead of just biting the bullet and ordering a drink. And BJ got up from the chair and clapped Hawkeye on the shoulder and let his hand sit there for a moment longer than maybe he would have for anybody else, long enough for Hawkeye to take a breath while BJ steadied him, long enough for him to feel the pressure of his hand there all night while he lay in bed and didn’t sleep, long enough for him to feel it whenever BJ laughed at something he said (which was a lot). (Hawkeye made sure of that).

 _I love you_ he would say in his head nearly every time BJ appeared in his eye line, not even knowing what he meant by it besides _I need you_ and _I’m sorry_ and _I’m sorry I need you_. He would have thanked God for him if he thought there really was one but instead they tortured Frank and annoyed Margaret and counseled Radar got on Potter’s nerves and whatever it was it was enough like love to be tolerable and like maybe this was what it was supposed to be like all along. Everything about BJ said _I’m never leaving without leaving a note_ and sooner or later PierceandHunnicutt was one word and Hawkeye and BJ were one thing, perfectly unique and uniquely perfect, Hawkeye figured. And it wasn’t okay and it would never be okay but for the time being it was kind of okay, too. And he wanted the war to be over more than anything in the world and he also wanted BJ to stay more than anything in the world and both those things were just going to have to be true. And many nights he would fall asleep slightly too drunk and be woken the next morning by shrieks of “Pierce! Hunnicutt!” and as far as alarm clocks go it isn’t too different from “Pierce! McIntyre!” but it felt different enough that Hawkeye didn’t have to feel guilty about replacing anybody. And at some point he got over his writer’s block.

_Dear Dad,_

_It may sound strange, but I think I finally understand what you meant when you told me there’s no such thing as replacing a person…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that on that! jk their relationship is complicated and fascinating and i love them with my whole heart


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